Harry Potter and the Bachelorette
by The Solitary Sandpiper
Summary: What if the Triwizard Tournament wasn't about money or glory? What if it was a competition for love? Twenty-five hopefuls, including Harry Potter, compete for the hand of the most beautiful woman in all of Europe.


_A/N: I do not own Harry Potter._

* * *

The chaos began when Dumbledore announced the Tournament—dinner, September 1st.

"If I could have your attention…"

Then, while the students listened, he explained. Hogwarts would be hosting a competition. Twenty-five champions, pulled from schools around the continent. All competing for the love of the most beautiful, the most wonderful woman in Europe…(The _Bachelorette_ , Dumbledore kept calling her.)

Dumbledore raised a reproving finger. "However, I shall not tell you the name of the Bachelorette. No, that would make it far too easy. Here at Hogwarts, we desire excitement, we desire _suspense_ —and that wouldn't exist if you could all just get on your phone and Google her, now would it?"

Draco Malfoy complained, "But then how are we supposed to know if she is of acceptable breeding? I don't want to compete for the love of some Mudblood, you know."

"Excellent question, Draco!" Dumbledore clapped his hands. "While I can assure you that the Bachelorette is of _impeccable_ breeding, you don't have to take my word for it. Severus, if you would?"

Snape rose to his feet, an ancient-looking, three-foot square stone tablet in hand. He read: "The tournament champions will be selected by an impartial judge, who will only choose those who are perfectly compatible with the Bachelorette." Looking bored, Snape tossed the tablet aside, directly into Hagrid's head. "In order to forestall any questions," he continued, as Hagrid slumped sideways in his chair, "know that 'perfectly compatible' _means_ 'perfectly compatible.' Mentally. Emotionally. Physically. Sexually.

"That is all." Snape sat down.

Dumbledore took the stage once more. "Now, all of you had better think long and hard about this competition. While the rewards are great, the risks are not trivial. In fact, the death toll has been rather high in previous years."

An excited mutter broke out over the Great Hall.

"But— _but_ —there is no need to worry too much. In an attempt to prevent these casualties, we will be instating an age-line. It will keep out all students under the age of ten.

"Thank you."

* * *

Over at the Gryffindor table, Hermione was pale and shaking. "You're not going to enter, are you, Harry? Please tell me that you're not."

I laughed. "Come on, Hermione. Do I look like the sort of person who would risk my life for the love of an unknown woman?"

"Umm…"

I patted her on the shoulder. "Relax," I said. "I am _not_ going to enter. Ron, on the other hand…hey, Ron." Hermione and I looked to where the red-haired Weasley was staring off into the distance.

"Hmm?"

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"What's a thought?"

"Never mind. It's a muggle thing." I clapped him on the back. "But seriously, Ron, what are your feelings on this Tournament? Thinking of entering?"

Ron turned, and I saw that his eyes were teary. "Do you really think I could handle it, Harry? I mean—look at me!"

I hesitated. "Good point. But still...the Goblet wouldn't pick you unless it believed that you were perfectly compatible. So it couldn't hurt to toss your name into the mix, right? Well, aside from the death toll, I mean."

"I don't know, Harry...Maybe you and I should both sit this one out. And, and Hermione, too."

Hermione looked at Ron sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped. "You think I couldn't win? You think I'm not good enough, not pretty enough?"

Ron was like a deer, caught in the headlights of her gaze. "N—no—"

"Relax, Hermione," I said. "Ron's just looking out for your safety." Then I gave a wicked smile. "Also, he thinks you're really ugly. But don't worry—that's not how I feel. In fact, I think you're beautiful. The most beautiful woman in Scotland." I gave her a quick kiss on the lips.

Then I got up, and sauntered out of the entrance hall, but not before taking a quick look back; Hermione's face was pale and frozen, a single finger pressed against her lips, eyes wide.

* * *

I suppose that I should explain: Hermione and I are not a couple. Never have been. I don't even like her in that way, at least I _think_ I don't—I'm just a rather impulsive person. Rather _wild_. As Dumbledore said, here at Hogwarts, we desire excitement. And during that moment, staring at Hermione in the Great Hall, I struck by an impulse. I acted.

That's all.

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, Hermione didn't mention the incident. She just looked at me rather determinedly, I looked back, we smiled, she sat beside me. Perhaps she had resolved to treat me as if nothing had happened. Which was fine, by the way, because I had a whole array of problems. Allow me to list them:

1\. I kept having dreams about Voldemort. In them, he was with his servant, Wormtail, and they were plotting to kill me.

2\. We had a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Mad-Eye Moody, who probably wanted to kill me, or at least injure me severely—after all, that's what DADA professors did. Quirrell, Lockhart, Lupin...Well, Lupin had been a werewolf at the time, so it wasn't really his fault, but tell that to the parents of the kid he ate.

3\. At the Quidditch World Cup, Death Eaters had attacked, and the Dark Mark had been cast. As Hermione kept informing me, this was evidence of Voldemort's supporters returning.

4\. My godfather, Sirius Black, was currently on the run from the authorities, after having killed 12 muggles plus Peter Pettigrew. Or, that's what everyone _thought_ he'd done. Only Ron, Hermione, and I knew the truth. After we had rescued him the previous year, Sirius had confessed to us privately that it was way worse, that the killing had begun when he was really young, and that the whole "Pettigrew incident" was just the last act in a rather vicious spree of decapitations.

5\. The previous night, I had mistaken Hedwig for a pillow, and slept on her. She currently wasn't breathing.

"Harry?" Ron was sitting at my side, shoving pancakes into his mouth. "Is something wrong? Is it the Hedwig thing?"

"Nah..." I sighed. "It's just...I have a lot of things on my mind. Voldemort, Pettigrew, Death Eaters, and…" I lowered my voice, " _Sirius_ …"

"I know what you mean," Ron said. "Did he kill again, do you know?"

I shrugged. "Does a bat fly at night? Does a cow eat grass? Sure, probably." I paused, before saying, "I could handle a couple of these things, but all of them together? I dunno."

"Harry..." Hermione spoke for the first time, and put a hand on my shoulder. It was warm and comforting. I looked into her eyes, and saw concern. "You're going to be okay, you know that?"

My face twisted, recalling the previous night's dreams. "Voldemort says otherwise."

"Voldemort doesn't know what he's talking about."

"I don't know, Hermione. He's been right about a lot of people, before. The Prewetts, the McKinnons, the Potters..."

"Okay, Harry, stop."

I did. "Oh, look. It's time for class. Maybe Moody will be a proactive DADA professor; maybe he'll kill us quickly, instead of waiting until the end, eh?"

* * *

"You all need...CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Mad-Eye Moody had hardly finished his sentence, when his fist came crashing down on the front table, on my desk, on Ron's desk, on Neville's head.

"Shoulda been faster, sonny," he growled, when Neville was knocked, bleeding, to the floor. "And next time, I'll be wearing rings." Then he marched up to the front of the classroom, and snapped, "Right. This is Defense Against the Dark Arts. I'm here to teach you all to deal with all manner of curses, hexes, and jinxes—basically, anything nasty that a Dark Wizard might conjure up, when he's trying to make you into the main ingredient for his pea soup. Dumbledore hired me on for a year, that's all that he could afford, and frankly, you all should be glad; I've been known to kill my auror students on occasion. Any questions?"

Hermione raised a hand. "Sir—when you say that you've _killed_ students—"

"Like this, Granger." Moody's wand flicked out, and Tracey Davis fell from her chair in twelve pieces: head, body, ten toes. Then Moody waved his wand again, and the room became ensconced in shadow.

Moody's feral grin seemed to glow in the darkness. "As I said: _CONSTANT VIGILANCE_."

Well, after this display, Hermione looked about ready to bolt, and frankly, so did the rest of the class. Even I was feeling a little queasy, as I watched Tracey's blood spill out over the stone tiles.

Moody put away his wand. Then he said, quietly, "Know why I did that?"

Not a single raised hand, not even Hermione's.

"I'll show you." Moody pointed a finger at Parvati Patil. "You, Miss Patil—look under Davis's desk, please."

A trembling Parvati did, stepping—unsuccessfully—around the pooling blood. For a moment, she searched, and then—a scream.

"Hold it up for the rest of the class, please."

Parvati straightened, eyes wide, and I looked to her hand, which was holding: black casing, a spiderweb of wires; it was a bomb, and the timer read '00:00.01.'

As if in slow motion, Moody slid down the aisle, and stepped out the door. Over his shoulder, he called, "Thank you all for your time, and I look forwards to our next lesson."

None of us dared breathe, least of all Tracey; she just continued to bleed out, briefly remembered, then completely forgotten.


End file.
